


There'd be More Change with no Labels

by revolutionaryfury



Series: Those Three [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Asexual Original Female Character, Ballet Dancer!Musichetta, Body Image, Happy Asexual Awareness Week, I may or may not have totally stolen Wendla from "Spring Awakening" in this story, Multi, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which P.E. class is the source of all teen angst, Wendla from "Spring Awakening" has a major role, Musichetta explains her relationship, and these two have a "Screw Your Standards!" mindset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There'd be More Change with no Labels

**Author's Note:**

> Please bare with me here, mes amis. This is my first time writing an asexual character, so please do tell me if I've gotten this wildly wrong. I'm not asexual myself, so I could have wildly misrepresented Wendla. As I said, don't hesitate to tell me if I need to make a correction!

_“Once you label me you negate me.”_

_-Søren Aabye Kierkegaard_

 

Musichetta was settling into the ninth grade pretty well. The homework load was heavier than she was used to, but she still had time for dance team, ballet lessons, tutoring middle schoolers in reading, volunteering at the soup kitchen, and of course spending most of her time with her boys. They came to her performances, even the nonschool-related ones such as ballet. Becoming a ballerina was ‘Chetta’s dream, and anyone could tell that she took great pains to be good at it. Her slightly chubby figure and shortness were detrimental to this career path, though; all professional ballerinas seemed to be willowy and tall. Marie said she'd grow into her baby fat. 

 

"It'll turn into beautiful curves, baby," she'd said. But as the days wore on, Musichetta wasn't so sure about that.

 

All of this was running through her mind as she attempted to guard the goal in a game of soccer for P.E. ‘Chetta had always been a pretty confident person, but looking at the girls in her class made her cringe. Somehow they seemed to pull off the horrible oversize brown shirt and black shorts combo, tying the shirt tight and somehow getting away with short shorts instead of the horrible basketball shorts everyone else sported. These were the girls who were insanely skinny. “Ballet dancer bodies,” Musichetta sighed.

 

A nice girl named Wendla kicked the ball towards Musichetta’s goal. She could hear her teammates crying “C’mon! Block the ball!” Musichetta leaned down, ready to grab for the ball with her gloved hands. She had only shifted a bit, though, causing one boy to shout, “Move it, fat ass!” He turned aside to his friends, muttering, “Maybe if she pretends it’s a burger, she’ll actually get moving. Woof, woof!” It may have been a mutter, but ‘Chetta heard every word said. She just sort of froze up. Suddenly, the ball rocketed out of nowhere and hit her in the gut.

 

“Oof!” Musichetta cried, falling to her knees. She winced as they rubbed against the shiny gym floor. Rug burn was sure to ensue. It felt like all of the breath had been knocked from her lungs.

 

Wendla ran over, her blonde braids swinging. She knelt down next to ‘Chetta, who was breathing heavily. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Oh my God…I’m _so_ sorry, ‘Chetta! I had no idea I kicked it so hard.”

 

“It’s – fine,” Musichetta got out through gritted teeth. God. She was so embarrassed. 

 

“Do you want to go to the nurse?” Wendla asked. She gave a quick “It gets us out of P.E.” wink.

 

Musichetta managed to hide her embarrasment and gave a smirk. She got to her feet, fake-limping over to the coach who ran the class. “Monsieur Batiste?” she whimpered. The whimper was supposed to come out exaggerated; it wasn’t as if the teacher could tell the difference. Kids got hurt in his class quite a bit. The whimper wasn’t so exaggerated, though. Her knees were skinned and her chest still felt like someone was storming the Bastille in there.

 

“May I please escort Musichetta to the nurse’s office, sir?” Wendla asked.

 

“Yeah,” Monsieur Batiste said vaguely, waving the two girls off and looking back to his class. “Who said you could slack?! Continue your games!” he barked.

 

Musichetta and Wendla made it out of the gym before collapsing into giggles. Musichetta sat down on the floor next to a bank of lockers, leaning against one. Wendla did the same, grabbing the other girl’s hand. “Oh, my gosh,” Wendla giggled. “I’ve never done anything like that before!”

 

“Pretty sure I have,” Musichetta returned, thinking of all the times she snuck out with Joly and Bossuet. “Wanna go a step further?” she asked, seeing Wendla’s pale face brighten. Before, Musichetta had never given Wendla much thought. She was a nice girl, but that was about all ‘Chetta knew of her. A girl who wore her pale blonde hair in braids and enjoyed wearing little dresses that looked better suited for nineteenth century Germany than twenty-first century France.

 

“Sure!” Wendla whispered, as if they were on a spy mission.

 

“I want to get back in time for English class,” Musichetta said, “but we’ve got about seventy minutes to burn. Whatdaya wanna do?” She could see Wendla’s eyes glowing with mischief. Maybe this day wouldn't be so horrible after all....

 

“Let’s go…” Wendla said, dangling the rest of her sentence in the air like a dog treat, “…to the park.” She spread her hands out in the air, grinning. “Well, how about it?”

 

“Yeah,” Musichetta laughed, thinking that Wendla would have suggested something edgier like the mall or the skate park. But whatever made the girl happy. The two got up, snuck into the locker rooms to change into their normal clothes – a plain white dress for Wendla, and a red sweater and black stockings for Musichetta – and exited out of a side door. They tore down the sidewalk, Wendla’s flats and ‘Chetta’s Chucks pounding on the pavement. Wendla threw out her arms like airplane wings and laughed, maturity-be-damned.

 

They kicked up leaves on the sidewalk, dancing and laughing and yelling. When they finally got the park, the two girls were so exhausted they collapsed on the grass, a few fall flowers poking through valiantly. Wendla grabbed Musichetta’s hand, beaming up at the bright sky.

 

“Gosh, it’s been fifteen minutes since we got out of that class and this is already a thousand times better,” Wendla laughed.  
Musichetta chuckled in agreement. “That’s right,” she sighed. “I don’t get why we have to take it. All of the fit kids have a great time, all ‘Aw, I love P.E.! It’s so easy!’ But what about the rest of us? When I can’t run those laps or make the goal or score the point or whatever, I feel so bad about myself, you know? Like, fat. Like…” She gave another sigh. “Useless.”

 

Wendla nodded, giving ‘Chetta’s hand a squeeze. “You’re not fat or useless, ‘Chetta,” the blonde girl said with a gentle smile. “Think about it this way: those kids in English who never turn in their papers, the French History kids who don’t fill out the simplest questionnaires, those kids. They feel the way you do in P.E. Maybe not fat, though.” She gave a little giggle. “I’m not sure how being bad at writing papers makes you fat.”

 

Musichetta cracked a grin. “Unless you’re eating your paper,” she suggested.

 

“Unless,” Wendla agreed. “But those kids. They feel useless and clueless and stupid, because they can’t do assignments that people like me and you can. Maybe they’re amazing poets in their heads, but the minute they try to write their prose…it just flies out the window.” She shrugged. “Who knows?”

 

Musichetta didn’t respond, thinking about what Wendla had said. It made a lot of sense, actually. Everyone had those kids in their classes. The football player who could barely add two plus two, or the super-confident soccer girl who really had all sorts of learning disabilities. Musichetta supposed maybe some people saw her that way – the girl who could dance like a pro but couldn’t bounce a ball without looking stupid. The girl who was great and English and math but couldn’t run a lap.

 

“You’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s some smart thinking, Wendla. Something to think about. But, uh…let’s talk about something else. Hopefully something that doesn’t turn me into some philosopher.” _I’m tired of thinking about my weight_ , Musichetta thought.

 

“Okay,” Wendla agreed. There was a short pause between the two as Wendla seemed to think of something, suddenly blushing and squirming a bit. “Another topic…uh. There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while…please tell me if this offends you. I really don’t want to make you mad…but, uh…those two boys? Lucien and Lesgles, right? Are you dating one of them?” She blushed an even deeper red. “Because you’re in most of my classes, and when we were going into Spanish on Tuesday, I saw Lesgles kiss Lucien on the lips and then he kissed you.” Wendla’s face was all but burning, her white dress really setting off the crazy shade of her face. She looked so uncomfrotable it was almost endearing.

 

Musichetta laughed. It wasn’t like they made it obnoxiously obvious, but Joly and Bossuet had finally stopped trying to hide their own relationship, so sometimes they would all hold hands or exchange kisses, especially near the conservative Madame Archambault, the Home Ec. Teacher, just to get a gasp and revolted look. ‘Chetta had been waiting for someone to ask her about her relationship or call her a slut for dating two guys. She knew it would come sooner or later. “I’m dating both of them,” she said. “And they’re dating each other.” Even though she liked Wendla, she was on the defense.

 

“Oh,” Wendla said thoughtfully.

 

“It’s called polyamory,” Musichetta supplied. “When more than two people are in a relationship with each other. Sometimes people who are in polyamourous relationships just date more than one person at once. For us, it’s not like a love triangle or anything, where two people like the same person, but we all like each other. Joly and Bossuet love each other; they’ve admitted it. I’m not sure if they love me yet, but I think it’s pretty early to say it, so I don’t mind it.” She shrugged, waiting for Wendla's response.

 

Wendla looked merely interested, not judgemental. “And it all works out? No one gets jealous?” she asked. 

 

Musichetta shook her head, grinning. She was so glad Wendla wasn't being a jerk. “Not at all. It’s a healthy, functioning relationship. It's pretty normal. I've only been with them a few months, but now I can't imagine being with just one person.”

 

“That’s pretty awesome,” Wendla said with a small smile. “How someone that’s our age – you know, we’re pretty young – can be in a mature, stable relationship like that.”

 

“ _Exactly_ , thank you. For once someone's focusing on the fact that we're mature instead of the fact that we're three people in a relationship! A lot of people think that it’s stupid or a phase or something. Joly and Bossuet have been together since middle school, and Bossuet is a junior now. That’s years! We’re…fluid. I guess that’s the word. We don’t need…labels, you know? Polyamory is the most label-y we’ll get, just to put a name on what we are. We don’t need to call ourselves sexuality or an identity. I guess technically they’re bi, if you absolutely need a label, but who cares?” Musichetta gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. “And thank you for respecting that. You don’t look as repulsed as I thought you would.”

 

“Of course not,” Wendla said quietly. “Gosh, I don’t define myself either, but I’m not your conventional person." She squirmed. "Can...can I tell you something, since we're friends?"

 

"Sure. Of course."

 

 

Wendla took a deep breath. “This is the first time I’ve said this aloud,” she said softly, “but I think that I’m…asexual.” She took a beat. “I know that I’m only fifteen, and I guess I don’t know _who_ I am yet – at least that’s what everyone tells me – but I honestly think I am asexual. I’ve never had any desire to be with a person in a sexual way. Not in my entire life. I’d like to get my first kiss, but beyond that? Nothing.” She shook her head. “My sister is a junior, and she’s had sex with her boyfriend plenty of times. In all honestly, the thought kind of repulses me, just makes me uncomfortable. I told her that I never wanted any of that, and she called me frigid.”

 

“That’s stupid,” Musichetta growled. “You should never make fun of someone for the way they identify themselves!”

 

Wendla nodded. “That’s right. I’m no different than anyone else. I just don't want to have sex.”

 

"And that's fine," Musichetta stressed.

 

"One thing I worry is that...no one will want to be in a relationship with me when I'm older. I mean, now it's fine, 'cause most of us are virgins. But what about when we get older, you know? And even on into adulthood," Wendla murmured.

 

"We'll just have to see. I mean, you might decide you're not ace. Or you might not. And if someone wants to be with you, they'll respect you. If they break it off just because you don't wanna have sex, they don't deserve you," Musichetta concluded proudly. 

 

Wendla smiled softly. "I guess."

 

Musichetta had a sudden thought.  "You know? We should form a club or something. For kids like us. An LGBTQAI club!”

 

“Huh?” Wendla asked.

 

Musichetta was surprised Wendla had never heard of the term. “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer/Questioning, Asexual, Intersex. It’s kind of a thing for everyone under that umbrella.”

 

Wendla nodded. “Sounds good.” She stood up, stretching. “Now how about a race?”

 

And with that, the two girls took off running through the grass. And just like that, nothing was important. “Asexual” and “polyamory” melted into the clouds. “Useless” and “fat” were shot through with sunbeams. They were just two friends. Sure, there would always be labels, or people forcing definitions on the girls, but for now? None of it mattered.


End file.
